Don't Turn Away
by Syntyche
Summary: Tony gets captured and Clint comes to rescue him ... sort of. Bonding and whump ensue.
1. Day Five: Don't Turn Away

Disclaimer: Of course the Avengers don't belong to me. The Muse just felt like a little Clint and Tony bonding, so here it is.

 **Don't Turn Away**

By: Syntyche

Day Five: Don't Turn Away

 _Don't turn away_

 _I pray you've heard the words I've spoken_

OoOoOoOoOo

This sucks.

He's pretty sure the walls are closing in, at least that's how it feels. Can't breathe when that happens, so he curls up and chants sweet words of calm, words that have always brought a balm of peace to his quailing soul:

 _And you, you shook me all night_ _long …_

( _AC/DC_ : one of the greatest bands ever,) he hears in his head in a Jarvis-sounding voice, and it sounds a little familiar, and he feels a little better, so he waits for it to pass. But it doesn't pass, actually, it just gets worse. Dances along his shoulderblades like an army of goddamn spiders - _**don't!**_ think about the spiders, oh God, don't think about them or the dozens of other nasty shitty little creatures scuttling around down here in the dark. This sucks. This sucks ass. This sucks more ass than anything has ever sucked ass before, and that includes Stars and Stripes giving any sort of report to Fury, although that's more of ass-kissing than ass-sucking and his face screws up into a laugh as he wonders what the hell he's even on about.

There's a giggle trying to escape … weird, but he guesses he'd rather be laughing than doing something far less manly, though he's sure he's done that too. Weeks spent in mostly darkness would mess with even Rogers' self-esteem.

( _Rogers, Steve:_ goody two-shoes. Captain America. Suspicious character - nobody is _that_ good, Jarvis says helpfully.)

 _That's right, buddy_ , he agrees whole-heartedly, because despite, well, _nobody's_ best efforts, he just can't bring himself to like the former soldier. Everybody has a dark side, and Tony doesn't trust anyone without one.

It's just light enough down here that his eyes keep straining to see better, and it's giving him headaches that piss him off with the sort of indignant anger that says money should be able to buy his way out of here or at least fix the damn lights. So far no takers, though, and it's not the first time someone hasn't wanted him for his money - only bad guys, though, because he can't think of a single woman that ever turned him down. They were all before Pepper, though.

( _Potts, Pepper. CEO of Stark Industries who somehow manages to keep his ass mostly in line.)_

The skritching between his shoulders digs in again and he snarls at it as if this will enforce his extreme displeasure at his shitty circumstances. But his snarling sounds kind of funny and he takes a minute to do a few Hulk impressions - _Tony SMASH!_ \- thumping his arc reactor and drumming his fists on the floor as he laughs until tears stream down his face.

And eventually he drifts off to sleep.

What else is he going to do?

OoOoOoOoOo

 _She was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean!_

Shouting at the top of his lungs, because precisely fuck and all. Kicking the door as he screams; it's thick but not soundproof and he hopes his guards enjoy the serenade.

 _She was the best damn woman that I've seen! She had the sightless eyes telling me no lies!_

He hopes they hate AC/DC and it pisses them off, whoever they are.

 _Knocking me out with those American thighs!_

OoOoOoOoOo

Getting restless. He knows: Tony Stark and restless are synonymous, but it's getting worse, annoyingly so. He needs a project. Needs to work.

 _ **Needs**_ Pepper.

( _Potts_ , _Pepper:_ amazing, intelligent, beautiful. All that is right and good in this cold, brutal world.)

 _Okay_! slapping his hands together and surveying the clean stone walls in the dim lighting, _I got this._

There isn't much he wouldn't do for a Sharpie right now: these walls are begging to be covered in numbers and formulas. In the absence of a marker or pencil - hell, even a _crayon_ \- he nervously start pacing until the inevitable realization once again sets in that the small confines of the cell make his claustrophobia worse.

( _Claustrophobia:_ a feeling of discomfort produced by a space too small to hold the amazing essence of all that is Tony Stark.)

 _Absolutely right, Jarvis,_ he agrees silently, and he curls into a ball, counts to one hundred, and hopes that it passes.

OoOoOoOoOo

He's been here awhile - doesn't know how long; but long enough to know that _**he**_ would have found him already - but today the count starts over! Because suddenly he's got a companion, a friend, a comrade in this hellhole: _their very own Avenging Archer, ladies and gentlemen: that's right, the inestimable, the esteemed, the astounding, the amazing Hawkeye - his good buddy Clint Barton!_

( _Barton, Clint. Archer. Acrobat? Smartass. Avenger.)_

Apparently Clint doesn't appreciate his long-winded introduction, because the first thing he says, in his usual _don't-forget-I'm-an-asshole_ growl, is, "We're not friends, Stark."

At first, Tony doesn't recognize him. A huge part of that is Tony's newly acquired inability to stay calm. He'd thought the panic attacks were bad before, but those were little bitty baby cries compared to the full-fledged tantrums his battered psyche was all about throwing now. To be fair, he's spent … weeks? … trapped in a basement and that would do a number on anybody, but every time he finally passes out from exhaustion, he immediately wake back up in a cold sweat imagining he's hooked up to a car battery in the middle of a desert, sweating his ass off and baking in his own tasty juices.

So he might've swung at Clint when he first dropped down beside him, an embarrassing flail of wobbly genius arms that he's sure definitely did not actually happen.

When he realizes it's the archer, though, solid and warm and fleshy Clint, something else, something far more embarrassing and primal takes over, and he latches onto Barton's forearms, digging his scrabbling fingers into the corded muscle there and bringing frantically jumping eyes to meet Clint's face. There should be words that come from his mouth, but instead a harsh, guttural whine fills his ears: the product of his incessant singing and screeching. Strong, proud, handsome, sarcastic Tony Stark has been replaced by a fearful, sniveling shell of a man, but Clint takes this in stride somehow, and turns his hands so his fingers are curled around Tony's shaking arms, too.

"I'm not leaving," he assures. "Try to rest. They feeding you okay? Getting enough water?"

Tony wants to fight him: Barton's here now, they can make a plan, they can get out of here. There's no time to rest.

"Tony," Clint says, and he's not asking. He's wearing his long-sleeved jacket and he shrugs out of it to bundle it carelessly into a lumpy pillow that he hands over. Feeling self-conscious but too needy to care, Tony takes the offering and stretches out carefully with his back to Clint, his spine pressed up against the archer's right leg. Clint's jacket is warm from his body heat and in spite of his anxiousness Tony starts to drift toward sleep as he burrows into it. Despite his propensity for getting hurt, Clint also _gets shit done_ so now that Clint is real and solid at Tony's back his panicked thoughts start to lull and slow with only randomly frantic jitters that bite at him in the quiet.

He's almost asleep when he realizes Clint is talking softly to himself as he sits with his back propped against the wall and Tony propped against him, his legs thrown out in front of him carelessly as if he's exactly where he planned to be at this moment. Maybe he is, but Tony thinks of the patrolling guards that wander past the door and the darkness that won't go away and he finds that a little hard to believe. He's about to tell Clint so when the archer catches sight of the inventor staring at him and he grins.

"Go to sleep, Tony," he says quietly. "Natasha will be here for us soon."

OoOoOoOoOo

Thanks for reading! Please review before you go! XD


	2. Day Four: Dare to Believe

Thanks for the reviews and follows, they're much appreciated!

Don't Turn Away

By: Syntyche

Day Four: Dare to Believe

 _Dare to believe_

 _Over one last time_

OoOoOoOoOo

 _She told me to come but I was already there!_

 _Cause the walls start shaking!_

 _The earth was quaking!_

 _My mind was aching!_

"For fuck's sake, Stark, _shut up._ You're making _**my**_ mind ache."

Barton heaves a sigh, and Tony frowns sulkily at the long-suffering tone to the archer's voice. As if Barton even has a right to be pissed off about anything - he's only been in this boring shithole basement for _one day_ , unlike Tony who's been here for probably eons.

"Like you even know?" Tony stops singing long enough to demand testily. "If you'd been down here for weeks like I have, you'd - "

"What?" Clint interrupts disbelievingly. "What are you even on about?"

" - weeks, like I have," Tony continues, snottily ignoring the interruption like it hadn't even occurred.

"It's been three days."

"What?" Tony parrots back, startled. That can't _possibly_ be right. "You mean three weeks."

"No," Clint shakes his head slowly, too surprised to even effectively patronize the inventor. "Three days. It's been three days since you were taken, Tony. Today's Friday. You disappeared on Tuesday."

Friday?

 _(Friday, sir. That is indeed three days after Tuesday.)_

 _Pfft_. Friday had zero meaning here in this dungeon. "If you mean a Friday three plus weeks after I'd been abducted, then yes, Feathers, it can be Friday for all I care," Tony informs Clint loftily and Clint rolls his eyes and tosses over the rock shard over he'd pried out of the wall earlier. Tony snatches it up and peers at the tic tac toe board Clint had scratched into the stone flooring, squinting for a minute before triumphantly scraping an X into the lower left corner. He'd already grabbed the middle box on his first turn.

"I'll bet I can make us a deck of cards out of your jacket," Tony says after a moment, and Clint grabs his discarded coat to clutch it to his chest protectively.

"No way," the archer disagrees vehemently, "I just got this thing. Pretty sure it still has the tags on it."

"Oh, really?" Tony waggles his eyebrows mockingly, "Did little Clint Sticky-Fingers help himself to the Superhero Section at Macy's?"

"What? No. Of course not," Clint mutters with a flustered little wave that doesn't convince Tony in the slightest.

"Uh huh," Tony crosses his arms over his arc reactor. "Okay." He considers the archer with a little leer and adds, "You do look pretty good in it." Clint frowns as though he's trying to decide if Tony is trying to make him give up the jacket through his weird brand of reverse psychology that seems to work more on Banner than anyone else, but of course Banner is dragging around a lot more guilt than most people.

"Thank you," Clint says finally, and there's a little lilt to his drawl that makes it sounds like there's a question mark at the end. Tony smiles.

"You're welcome," the inventor replies courteously, then noisily sucks in a breath to pick up where he'd left off singing as he slings the rock back to Clint so the archer can make his move.

 _And we were making it_ -

"I'm not above cutting off a sleeve to use as a gag, however," Clint interrupts darkly. "Sleeves really just get in my way."

Tony shuts up, but it turns out that Clint is going to lose a sleeve anyway.

OoOoOoOoOo

They make Clint prove he's as good as his reputation.

Tony still doesn't know who They are and Clint is less than forthcoming with any information he might have, but the archer doesn't seem surprised in the slightest that they know who he is and demand he perform for them. Tony thinks that Clint might have been expecting this, and it makes him wonder exactly how many times Clint has been in this situation before; the archer clearly doesn't want to comply, but he also has this completely carefree way about him, like he's doing it because he _chooses_ to, not because they're using Tony as the target and if Clint isn't the one loosing arrows as close to his teammate as possible, it'd be one of these assholes sending arrows _into_ his teammate.

Clint wins easily, of course, and they break the fingers of his left hand as his prize. Tony guesses the archer must have considered it an acceptable trade, though, since if he'd lost they'd threatened to take Tony's entire hand.

OoOoOoOoOo

Clint is quietly splinting his fingers and Tony does his best to assist. The inventor is no Coulson, though, and definitely no Romanoff, but he tries to be as gentle with the unfamiliar task as he can though he knows Clint's hurting. They'd torn a sleeve from Clint's jacket, eliciting a wistful sigh from the archer, and Clint had palmed an arrow into his boot from the borrowed quiver that Tony is able to break into smaller pieces they can use to set Clint's fingers. It's slow going, and Clint stares at his hand stonily and when Tony says at least it's not his primary hand, the look on Clint's face immediately shuts him up because of course it doesn't fucking _matter_ which hand it was. Tony wishes he could think of something else to say, anything that doesn't sound patronizing or trite.

In the end, he settles for a meek, "Thanks."

Clint looks up, startled, and Tony sees his expression flash - _just doing my job, anyone else on the team would have done the same, it's no problem -_ but the archer just nods shortly and they drift back into silence.

Tony suddenly realizes how inexplicably grateful he is to have Clint here with him, and it doesn't even really matter if it's been three days or three weeks because the panic that had been clawing at him while he'd been alone has dulled to a relentless but manageable whine at the back of his mind. It was the waiting, though they barely approached him except to slide food and water into his cell, and the worrying that he'd crack if questioned, even though they had yet to ask him anything. Somehow the fear seems more manageable with someone else here, even though Tony knows deep down he's already been used against his teammate once and there's no reason to think it couldn't happen again - or worse, they could use Clint against _him._ It'd be so much easier if he just knew what they wanted.

Later, he listens to Clint talk softly - he catches a stern but amused, "No, you can't wear that, it's way too much for that kind of job and you know the mic never sits right," and he misses Pepper so damn much. Tony shuffles around and taps Clint's leg, waiting until the archer's grey eyes meet his.

"I'm sorry I can't do anything for your hand," Tony says quietly, and Clint shrugs and offers the best reassurance he can.

"Don't worry about it. Go ahead and rest. Natasha will be here for us soon."

OoOoOoOoOo

Thanks for reading! Please, please review!


	3. Day Three: Carry Me Away

Don't Turn Away

By: Syntyche

Day Three: Carry Me Away

 _Carry me away_

 _I need your strength to get me through this_

OoOoOoOoOo

He's not afraid of the dark. Not at all. It's just that sometimes, down here, it's too dark.

It's too _dark._

It's _too dark there's too much blackness too much nothing and all he can see are -_

Stars. An enormous immensity of stars stretched out before his fading eyes, a dulling, glittering canvas of the infinite, the awesome. It's amazing, phenomenal, and breathtaking …

Literally breathtaking…

He can't breathe.

He can't _**breathe**_. Jarvis has stopped trying to call Pepper because the suit doesn't have intergalactic calling ( _ha, that's very funny, sir,)_ or maybe he just can't hear the AI over the roaring in his ears.

He can't breathe.

 _He can't breathe … !_

"Tony! Damn it! Calm down!"

"I can't breathe!" he gasps with a jolt, bolting upright at the same time he curls over his knees, one hand flinging out to ward off the crushing vise closing in on him, the other wrapped around his head to protect his valuable brain. Instead of thickly suffocating space grazing his frantically outstretched fingertips he smacks into something solid and hears a hiss and a muffled curse.

( _Barton, Clint: Fellow prisoner. Archer. Assassin. Broken fingers.)_ And somewhat unexpectedly, Jarvis adds, ( _Safety,_ ) because apparently the AI has come to associate the yet unshakeable presence of Tony's teammate as solidity and protection. The fact that Jarvis isn't silent anymore is good too, Tony thinks, something to be relieved about, but maybe that's ironic and he should actually be more concerned that he's hearing voices again … shouldn't he?

"You need to calm down," Clint is saying with his odd brand of patience, a sort of almost parental firmness that always seems at odds with his _okay, this looks bad…_ ability to find trouble in practically any situation. Clint's steady voice overlaps with Jarvis' in Tony's mind as the AI repeats Barton's words, and that gives Tony pause because he always believes Jarvis ( _rational, sane_ ) and he wants to believe Clint ( _marksman, safety_ ), so Tony supposes he should calm down.

Easier said than done.

( _Breathe with me, sir. In, and out._ )

He can do that. Child's play.

"Come on, Tony. In, and out."

He does, and finds that he isn't surprised when the white noise screaming in his brain starts to settle. But of course the stellar team of Jarvis and Barton, Ltd., would have a handle on this whole crisis-control thing, it's sort of their job when you think about it. Now all Tony needs to do is to get his incredibly science-y sexy brain back into the mix, and they'll be good to go.

In, and out.

Tony realizes that he can feel Clint breathing, that the archer is using his good hand to trap Tony's shaking fingers against his sternum so Tony can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, follow Clint's movements and copy his slow, even breathing.

Tony does. In, and out.

"Whew, what a rush!" Tony jokes weakly when he guesses he can get a few words out without an oh-so-humiliating warble to his naturally pleasant tenor, because _that_ milkshake sure as hell isn't going to bring all the girls to the yard.

Clint eyes him warily, then frowns deeply. "God, you're weird," he says with a shake of his head, and Tony realizes he'd continued speaking aloud, rambling inanely about milkshakes. "Damn it, now I want a cheeseburger," Clint mutters grumpily, with a righteous frown marring his features that curls Tony's innards a little with fright. Even in the dim lighting Clint's bitchface is legendary, and has frozen many a friend and foe alike in their petrified tracks.

"Well, yeah," Tony replies nervously, "Can't have a milkshake without a cheeseburger," he soothes gently; anything to ease the lines pulling at the corners of Clint's mouth and terrifying the helpless inventor - just a little, of course. "When we get out of here, buddy," Tony rouses with all the gusto he can muster, "we should definitely get cheeseburgers." He winces a little at the close, hoping he hasn't gone too far; Tony seriously doubts that Clint Barton has ever been anyone's _buddy_ unless fake names and costumes were involved.

Hmm. Costumes.

"We should make you a kickass costume to replace your jacket," Tony pronounces in what he hopes is a casual but enthusiastic subject chance. "It'd be sweet."

Clint, predictably still sulking about the damage done to his apparently beloved jacket, ignores him, and Tony sulks a little himself and goes back to focusing on breathing in and out.

OoOoOoOoO

"Why are you here?" Tony finally asks into the darkness, feels more than sees Clint shrug.

"Nobody else volunteered?"

"I know that's not true," Tony informs the marksman with certainty; "everyone on the team loves me. I'm just that loveable. If it were _Steve_ , maybe not so much, but Bruce at the very least would have - "

"Would have done really great down here?" Clint interrupts sarcastically, an eyebrow ticking upward in a challenge. "Yeah, I'll bet."

"Oh? Dungeons are more _your_ thing?" Tony shoots back, upping Clint's ante by raising both eyebrows - so _there_ , Barton - "That thanks to your leather-clad girlfriend?"

"Knew you'd need the company," Clint replies shortly, apparently not at all interested in joining Tony's game of facial poker. "It sucks being in places like this alone, and you, maybe more than most, shouldn't have to be."

The archer's surprisingly honest assessment gets to Tony. He knows that Clint knows about the shit he went through - a crap situation that, yeah, made him the awesome superhero that he is, but still sucked hardcore at the time and every night that he wakes up gasping and shaking and alone. "It was a bit risky of you," Tony allows quietly, and he didn't want to say it aloud even though it's true. The bad guys - still not sure who they are, and that irritates the hell out of him - must want Clint around because he's still alive, but Clint and team couldn't have been sure that would be the case when they'd agreed to send the archer in.

"I know," Clint grins, a slash of white in the dark, "but I'm _expendable._ And also the best choice to put up with your incessant rambling. Thor probably would have killed you by now, and even Cap would have gone dark side."

"True enough," Tony agrees readily, realizing he's relieved and touched Clint volunteered because he's right: he and Spangles would be at each other's throats right now trying to prove whatever needed proving, and Thor was simply too good-looking for Tony's ego to allow the close proximity for any length of time.

"Thanks, Feathers," he adds quietly, and Clint shrugs again, though it's not a brush off of Tony's surprising gratitude, but more an acknowledgement that it was really all good, even though he's sporting splinted fingers that have got to be worrying him as much as they're concerning Tony.

They settle in as they have been: Clint's spine pressed to the wall, fingers curled loosely in his lap, Tony's back propped against the archer's outstretched leg. Tony closes his eyes, counts his breaths until whatever passes for calm in this situation settles over him, and tries to sleep.

OoOoOoOoOo

They've figured out Clint's got a transmitter.

Tony knows it's his fault.

Well, to be completely fair, it was actually a panic attack's fault, and there wasn't much Tony could have done about it, although there's a guilty nagging at him that he's not at all pleased by, not really interested in acknowledging because God, please don't let them have hurt Clint because of him. He'd latched on to the archer after startling awake scared half out of his mind ( _too many stars and he just couldn't breathe_ ), demanded Clint bring the team in, get the team here now, get _them_ out now, that instead of giving Natasha fashion advice he'd damned well better call someone useful. Tony knew now he'd been shouting, yelling inane, garbled words at the top of his voice and no doubt his screaming bloody murder had brought _them_ in and he's sorry, God, he's so, so sorry because they took Clint away and now they've hauled him back with dark bruises slowly blackening one of his eyes and peppering and disappearing below his collarbone, and purpling the skin around his mouth in the shape of fucking _fingerprints_ , and his chin is stained red with blood.

Tony can barely work up the nerve to ask and Clint gives him a careless laugh that shakes around the edges and says it's not first molar he's lost and that Tony should see the other guys. Then Clint leans his head back against the cold stone wall and tells Tony to close his eyes and rest, and that Natasha will be here for them soon.

OoOoOoOoOo

If you'd like to see more of this story, I'd love to know! Writer's block is being a bitch but seems to have relented so updates for a few posted stories are coming soon if anyone is interested, and a Supernatural fic that refuses to go away (damn it, Dean!) Anyway, please take a second to review because I promise you it feeds an author's encouragement like you wouldn't believe. A simple comment can make an author's entire day; definitely makes mine and feeds the Muse and I appreciate every single one of them. XD


	4. Day Two: Deny Everything

Thank you for the feedback! Your interest keeps these stories rolling. XD

 **Don't Turn Away**

By: Syntche

Day Two: Deny Everything

 _Then I'll let the darkness cover me_

 _Deny everything_

OoOoOoOoOo

Usually a master of self-deception and gilded words, Tony is finding it hard to convince himself that it _hasn't_ been months now that he and Barton have been trapped down here, forced to share a cramped space and way too much unintentional (and in Barton's case: irreverent) personal information. Tony's claustrophobic prison definitely took on more of a locker room feel once Barton showed up, but for being as strident as he is about personal space and physical contact, Tony is somehow finding the archer's intentional multitude of inane distractions calming rather than experiencing the annoyance he should and would rightly be feeling.

Although sometimes it is a bit much, and Clint doesn't seem to care that he might be bothering Tony, _no_ , he's all on about past missions with Natasha (siphoning out all the pertinent details that could be used against SHIELD as well as, Tony suspects sulkily, the really interesting and R-rated bits) and little snatches of Coulson (and Tony doesn't miss how much Clint _misses_ the man,) and his dog, Lucky (Tony had met the one-eyed mutt when he'd stopped by Clint's apartment to watch the hapless archer attempt to untangle a mess of DVR and TV cables and had been spectacularly unimpressed by the animal Clint credited with saving his life once.)

"Why do you keep interrupting yourself?" Clint asks suddenly from the other side of the small cell where he's doing some mildly enthusiastic sit-ups that are stirring the still air in a way that gets on Tony's nerves because it feels like it's intruding on his staked out, Barton-free zone.

"What?" Tony snarks grouchily (but still collected and reasonable, of course.) "What are you on about?" he intentionally mocks the archer with his own words and a little sneer.

"What you're doing just now," Clint elaborates as his chest bounces against his knees on the sitting-up part of the sit-up, grimacing as he exhales and rolls his back level with the ground again. "And leave my dog out of it, he's a hero," he adds defensively on his next up/exhale, and it's weird to see Barton so touchy about a mutt. Tony's certain he hasn't been talking aloud (maybe Clint's actual superpower is mind-reading?) and he starts to regard the archer with a healthy degree of skepticism in no way related to paranoia like Barton might suggest if he actually _was_ speaking aloud.

Which he isn't.

"Yes, you are," Clint says patiently, and he sounds a little worried, which is ridiculous because if he should worry about anyone it's himself, with his apparently accidental mind reading and all. He pauses his sit-ups, forearms resting on his upraised knees and hands dangling, to regard Tony with more concern than usual. "I'm not a mind reader."

 _Yes, you absolutely are,_ Tony thinks, and immediately (not paranoid!) shifts his concentration to barricading the zillion thoughts bouncing around his mind behind thick, steel doors with little arc reactor logos on them: no way in _hell_ Barton is seeing what goes on in his fantastical brain; some things are not meant for the general public (in general) or even his teammates.

(Especially mind-reading ones.)

OoOoOoOoOo

He's totally and perfectly fine, but Tony allows that he is starting to climb the walls a little. If there were demands, or reasons, or questions, problems he could solve, he'd actually feel better, but this endless nothing (like space) (no, God, not like space, don't you dare think about it, _forget about it!_ ), the dullness of every day as it stutters into the next, is driving Tony stupid-crazy and if they don't get out soon, get home soon, he is going to actually lose his mind.

He needs his labs. His workshops. Pepper and alcohol and sex and action and to eat more than once a day. He needs his lifelines to sanity and he needs them _now_. Clean clothes. Hot showers. His BFF Bruce. Fancy coffee in small cups. The longsuffering Happy to rile and tease.

A shift at his shoulder (he jumps at the unexpected contact, wasn't ready, wasn't expecting it) and a grunt and Clint rumbles groggily back into the land of the living, slow blinks over greyed-out blue eyes showcasing the archer's abnormal unsteadiness. Clint had used his remaining sleeve earlier to scrape away the slick blood coating his chin, but the corners of his dry mouth are still dark red and the bruises ( _fingerprints_ , _God_ ) along his jaw have shifted into a painful-looking purple that Tony inexplicably wants to poke at (like a curious kitten) to see if Clint agrees that they hurt as much as Tony thinks they probably do.

Tony takes a minute to imagine himself as a little kitten complete with tiny goatee and Iron Man uniform, and giggles out a (manly) laugh, batting at the air experimentally with fingers curled into a makeshift paw though he stops just short of a cursory _meow_. Tony senses rather than actually sees Clint's eyebrow lifting as the archer stretches carefully, his shoulder and knee bumping into Tony as he does so.

"The hell you doing, Stark?" Barton mumbles muzzily, his drawl more pronounced than usual, an odd mix of honey and gravel, and rough around the edges.

"Going crazy," Tony answers truthfully (you're already there, buddy.) "You should try it, it's much more interesting than boring old here." He waves his cat-paw fingers in a gesture meant to encompass their small cell and Clint squints at him skeptically, like he can't quite wrap his brain around what's changed with Tony while knowing _something_ has. (No, it's okay, nothing's changed, still sane.)

"Thanks, I'll pass," Clint responds wryly, and he stretches and gives his neck a sharp jerk to the side, wincing at the resulting crunch of joints cracking. A quick snap to the other side, another wince, and the archer moves his attention on to a rueful survey of his splinted fingers, surveying the darkened digits quietly. Tony wants to say something witty with a splash of juvenile that will make his teammate roll his eyes and crack a smile, but nothing jumps to mind so he too keeps uncharacteristically silent, pawing at the air, scratching his arm, wiggling a little just to move. He's two seconds from getting up and pacing, but there's something grounding about the archer at his side and he's not quite ready to leave that lifeline to sanity yet, no matter how much his brain is bouncing around inside his skull and his kitty paws are twitching.

There's a rattle at the door but it's not time for their usual food drop off and Clint tenses, hauling himself to his feet and, with arm hooked through the inventor's curved elbow, Tony right along with him. Definitely not food, instead it's guys with rifles and nondescript clothing and Tony wonders _mercenaries?_ but he isn't completely sure.

They're gestured out of the cell and they go, unresisting at this point, and Tony's so relieved to be in the open, _breathable_ space of the hallway he forgets to be charming and instead forces steady breaths past his parted lips so he doesn't hyperventilate from sheer relief at the sudden absence of claustrophobia he's been fighting for weeks (because Clint's wrong, no way it's only been days, must have been weeks, _has_ to have been months.)

Barton strides just ahead of him, scowl firmly in place, intact fingers of his right hand tapping against the side of his thigh relentlessly. Tony knows Clint's looking for a chance, a weakness, something to exploit that will give them the upper hand.

So far it's not looking too good.

It turns out they want Tony to make a ransom video. He would have agreed to it even without the gun pressed to Barton's head, but as he stands nervously under bright lights that hurt indescribably much after being in the dim lighting of their cell for so long, Tony can't help but stare at his teammate: Clint is ghastly white under the florescent glare, the sharp clench of his teeth tightening his jaw painfully beneath the sweat rolling down his face.

Barton's eyes catch Tony's flitting attention and the archer flicks his gaze down once to his right hand. Even disoriented and slightly bewildered, Tony is sharp enough to follow the archer's line of sight as he realizes that Clint is being abnormally restless: a shift of his boot, settling his hips, rolling his shoulders, widening and narrowing his stance; he's keeping the attention in the room mostly upon himself and off of Tony, for whatever reason makes sense to him that Tony can't fathom. His right hand is also moving in a pattern that's disguised by his uncharacteristic agitation - a pattern Tony has a little trouble with at first, but not as much as he would have if Bruce hadn't bullied them all into picking up bits of sign language once the physicist had realized the team's archer is mostly deaf without his hearing aids in.

Tony tries obliquely to follow the archer's swift movements but doesn't quite get -

"Gerbils?" he mutters aloud disbelievingly, and one guy lifts his head from adjusting equipment to give Tony an _are-you-stupid?_ look that Tony is immediately offended by. The hell is he supposed to tell the other Avengers about _gerbils?_ (Nothing, because obviously _Clint_ is one losing his mind, not you. Gerbils. Fuck's sake.)

Clint rolls his eyes and his jaw clenches tightly as he shakes his head shortly in disbelief, but a gleam of amusement sneaks through his blue eyes that makes Tony smile a little. A bit more attention is funneled Tony's way from the half dozen men scattered around the pair as varying shades of suspicion begin to weight his shoulders, but if there's one thing (one thing? _pfft_ , try a dozen, even at his worst) Tony knows, it's damage control.

"You know what I love about gerbils?" he announces loudly. "Just saying 'gerbils.' You guys wanna try it? It's pretty fun to say if you roll your mouth around it just right. _Geeerbils._ " Tony flashes his patented grin that is proven to make people forget about what they were thinking and proceed to just adore him; there doesn't seem to be a lot of adoration happening at present, but suspicious looks are replaced by skeptical confusion, and before Tony can comment on anything else he's ushered to stand before a camera under lights that make him squint and sweat.

"Hey!" he protests, "Can I get a mirror and hair gel at least?" He'll still be sexy hot, obviously, but even Tony Stark can't be top-of-his-game attractive after months in the darkness without basic styling product. Whoever sees the video might not even know it's him at this point; maybe they should have Feathers do it because no doubt SHIELD has seen Barton looking his worst (red-rimmed eyes, drawn face, inhumanly bright irises. Poured-in malice and hatred. Death in his wake.) Tony shudders.

Once more glance to his teammate and Clint shoots him a look that's almost anxious. After a moment of deep concentration Tony realizes that it's not the gun parting the short strands of hair behind the archer's ear that is causing Clint's apprehension, but rather the silent missive he's willing Tony to convey. Tony nods confidently and begins, deciding he doesn't need to understand the message to pass it on efficiently.

Tony calmly delivers the slightly overdramatic speech (he sounds annoyed in his head; is he sounding annoyed on camera?), listing an amount for his retrieval that the inventor can't decide if it's ridiculously high or embarrassingly low, but once he's finished speaking and the cameras are turned off, he and Barton are rewarded for their cooperation by getting the shit beat out of them.

Tony thinks that honestly their captors are just disappointed that they didn't get to shoot either of them for bad behavior, but the grunting savages are certainly enthusiastic in delivering a solid beating that leaves both Avengers swearing and groaning and stumbling back to their cell under the joyfully insistent prodding of their captors. They don't break anything (more) or damage either of them (further) irreparably, but _goddamn_ it hurts like a bitch and Tony's fingers curl into fists that he thumps against his sides in frustration because he's not dying - _they're_ not dying in this shithole - (you're missing something) - and he's already checked and there aren't any identifying symbols or signage anywhere (are you sure?) - nothing to clue him in on who these guys are (nothing to clue _you_ in, genius,) but if Clint knows he would have said something already, right?

Yeah, right. Now that he has a minute to (sort of) breathe (almost back to the cell, gotta think before we're back there and it's toosmalltootightcan'tbreathe) he tries to pull his further fragmenting thoughts together and replay the hand motions in his mind.

A pulsing pain radiates outward from the center of his back and he realizes he's been struck by the butt of a gun. He hears Clint yelling but he's too busy focusing on the words in his mind, the pictures Clint's fingers drew because they aren't making any sense (because you don't want them to) 'cause why would Barton -

Tony's thoughts slam to halt as his brain finally clicks into place and his heart does a sudden sharp stutter against his ribcage. They're going to kill Clint.

Not now (well, maybe now, snap out of it, dumbass, and look behind you!) but soon. Another outraged yell and Clint's down on a knee, blood leaking from his split temple and Tony jolts himself out the confused denial swirling his thoughts and throws himself in front of Barton.

"Enough!" Tony snaps vehemently, immediately thrusting an arm behind him for the surprised archer to use to heave himself to his feet. Eyes wide at the inventor's sudden show of life, Clint reaches for Tony, clasping his right hand around Tony's forearm, and Tony plants his feet stubbornly as the archer pulls on him to clamber to standing. "We're going."

Tony glares in a wide circle and gently pushes the weaving archer ahead of him - seriously, they're like ten feet from their cell and the (relative, for now, are you sure, aren't you supposed to be the brains? Fucking _do something!_ ) safety it provides. They manage to avoid further harassment (well, yeah, they're going to _kill_ at least one of you, gotta be in okay shape for that) and as soon as the door slams behind him Tony's whirling to face Barton, blinking through the vertigo the abrupt motion delivers like a slap to his already abused brain.

They're going to kill Clint. Now that the thought is lodged in his brain it sits like a coiled snake, squeezing tighter and tighter until any other thoughts are gasping for breath and snapping away. He'd been too focused on keeping his hand motions perfect and discreet to relay Clint's message that it hadn't dawned on him as he'd robotically recited his ransom piece that there had been no mention of retrieving Barton, no amount listed for his safe return. But maybe he'd just missed something … ?

"Barton - " he begins slowly, but is interrupted by a deep groan from the archer as Clint carefully places his back to his familiar spot against the cell wall and carefully slides down to rest on his ass.

"Fuck," Clint says succinctly, closing his eyes, and Tony can see sweat rolling down his face, automatically lifts a hand to feel his own damp cheek. Tony wonders if Clint knows there's no ransom for him, already knows the archer does, wants to say more to reassure his teammate at the same time he wants to not say anything because it's not worth bringing up, worrying Clint over, because the team will be here before anything bad happens.

Clint coughs, and it sounds strangled and a little wet and _gross_. Tony cringes.

"We need to get out of here," Tony finally mutters, and Clint lifts tired, fever bright eyes to face him, his short hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and blood. "You need help."

Clint laughs shortly at this, voice rasping in his throat lazily as he points out logically, "I _am_ the help," and damn it, Tony is _not_ amused because Clint shouldn't be so damn calm about their bruised bodies and his twisted, useless fingers, and Tony's slow spiral into madness.

"Well, we need _more_ help," Tony snarks mulishly, crossing his arms over his chest like a sullen teenager. He sighs and even though his thoughts are jittery and explosive at the back of his teeth ( _you'regoingcrazy Clint'sgoingtodie whythemessage?what'sthemessage?whatisClintsorryfor,Tasha?_ ), setting him on edge, making him shake, he hunkers down next to the archer so their shoulders are touching, hoping he's giving as much strength as he's taking.

"We need more help," he repeats quietly and at that, Clint rolls his head so he's facing Tony and smiles genuinely, red teeth glistening wetly in the dark.

"We'll get more help," he assures confidently. "Natasha will be here for you soon."

OoOoOoOoOo

One more chapter! Please let me know what you think, I love to hear from you and it greatly inspires the Muse.


	5. Day One: On My Own

Thank you very much to everyone who has taken the time to comment on this random little story… I always enjoy writing Clint and Tony banter and bonding. :D Please take the time if you can to review at the end; I can't even express how much it makes my day.

Don't Turn Away

By: Syntyche

Day One: On My Own

 _Slowly walk away_

 _To breathe again_

 _On my own_

OoOoOoOoOo

Barton is coughing again and even though Tony is down to the last tattered shreds of his now disgusting t-shirt (he could probably sell it as a genuine Zeppelin concert tee, actually looks pretty authentic now), he still tears off a hunk and passes it to the archer, batting it against Clint's arm gently until scrabbling, shaking fingers slowly release the deathfist-clench they're locked in to relieve him of the material in a wobbly grasp. Clint's eyes are so goddamn bright in the dying light that Tony knows his teammate is only holding on to consciousness by his fingertips and force of will, and the inventor is damn proud of his friend in this moment, proud that the Avenger most people see as _expendable_ and _weak_ and - worst of all, _only human,_ like it's an insult - is really one of the strongest of them, taking all his human and unenhanced and _normal_ weaknesses and shoving them deep down and _getting the job done_.

(Maybe he should live and you should die, instead)

 _Maybe_ , Tony sneers back at the voice that maybe sounds like him, like dear old dad, like always calm and making too much sense Captain fucking America - _or maybe we're just_ _ **both**_ _getting out of this shithole fucking_ _ **today**_ , he thinks defiantly, because it _has_ to be today. Has to. Tony's cared so much up to this point about being sure it's been weeks or months, but right now all he cares about is today. Today, today, _today_ they are leaving, both of them, and that will even be the end of wondering how long he's been down here because he'll just check the new cellphone he's buying the second he's out of here, or he might even look at a stupid calendar if those still exist and he'll know exactly how long it's been and the _only_ thing that's going to be remembered about today is that today they're going home.

That's it.

That's _it,_ Tony vows firmly. Nothing else will need to be remembered about today because they're both walking out of here. Nobody is going to be buying flowers a year from now to leave against cold stone to remember someone who was a teammate, a friend, a sort-of brother; nobody is going to be standing in the cold November rain trying to remember what it's like not having to try and remember someone's voice because you're going to hear it again at dinner tonight, at practice tomorrow, laughing at a stupid joke more because they're your friend than because the joke was actually funny.

Nobody is doing those things in a year because they're not happening. Not on his watch.

Tony grits his teeth, clenches his fists, nods his head authoritatively. He can handle things, no problem.

"That was a really inspiring speech. Thank you." Curved spine to the wall, hunched over knees pulled in, Clint swipes at his mouth with the back of a hand already streaked red and inadvertently deepens the smear. "I hadn't planned on dying today, but now I'll make doubly sure I don't."

Tony thinks about smiling for Clint's sake (because friends do that,) but he can't bring himself to, doesn't have the energy, doesn't even have the brainspace to vet the skittering jittery thoughts that have been his constant companion lately. Minus the angst, it's kind of peaceful in StarkWorld right now, except for the throbbing pain in his back that he knows is going to blossom into quite a nice bruise and a few random comments from nameless whisperers that escape the white noise rattling his skull to ring in his ears.

"Yeah, that'd be helpful, Feathers, thanks," he says sharply, keeping it large and in charge because, although Barton has been running the _this looks bad, but I've got this_ show, literally everyone who's everyone knows Tony is the brains of the outfit and there's no way he's getting shown up by the brawn, even if he is a little teary-eyed proud of the brawn right now.

The brawn has been giving him a lot of weird looks lately, and another longsuffering glower is sent Tony's way. The inventor smiles a little, pulls it in like a ratty quilt he'd drape over his shoulders if 1) it was actually tangible, and 2) so long as no one was watching.

"Please don't involve me in whatever … this … is," Clint says and he sounds tiredly amused, or maybe like he wants to be amused but is just too tired. "This is a totally weird and admittedly unwanted foray into the mind of Tony Stark I really don't want to be privy to."

"Gettin' a little hoity-toity there, Barton," Tony mutters snappishly, his good humor evaporating under Clint's disbelief: the brawn is a bit uppity, it seems. "You should be thrilled to get a touch of my genius."

Clint makes a laugh that sounds like a snort overlapped by a whimper, and he shifts to brace an arm more firmly across his battered ribcage. "What?" he asks with an amused, smirking grin Tony hears more than sees in the semi-darkness.

"What?" Tony parrots back irritably, annoyed that Billy fucking Joel over there couldn't leave a tender moment alone and just accept Tony's rarely gifted almost paternal pride with the humble grace it richly and appropriately deserved.

"I think you should just keep your genius from touching me," Clint chuckles hoarsely, and it's a rough, sandpapery sound that reminds Tony keenly of his own dehydration and sets his mouth aching for water. His stinging rebuttal to his teammate's sense of humor is lost in a harsh clench of snapped-together teeth as the door staggers open and his body reminds him painfully of bruises endured and sharply felt with every movement. He instinctively backs against the wall, panic sensors he'd been heroically pushing down bubbling over a little, threatening to erupt with any further provocation. He _hates_ this, hates the panic, hates the way it takes over, freezing him and choking him and suffocating every breath he has to give.

"Clint," he says instead, and if it sounds a little weak, a little scared, he knows it's all in his mind and not out in the open where anyone else can hear, which is good since he's just five minutes ago resolved to be the resourceful, intelligent, brave one.

Clint heaves himself to his feet to stand a few feet from Tony. They make an unfortunate-looking pair: Clint, bloody and scraped, damaged left hand curled against his ribs to both protect his broken, mangled fingers and his heavily bruised flank, and Tony, equally disheveled, bruises blossoming beneath his shredded t-shirt (like paint ripples on a perfect canvas, he points out to himself,) hunched and hurting.

Two guards enter to face them. _Two?_ Tony snorts. That's child's play even on a bad day, which is good, because this fucking nightmare feels like it's gone on forever.

"I hope you brought dinner," Tony says pointedly, eyebrow raised to let them know how in the wrong it would be to answer in the negative here, how completely unwelcome any other response would be. Feeding their hapless prisoner doesn't even seem to occur to these jackholes though, and Tony's stomach does a lurch-flip that flubs the landing as he catches the metal gleam of a barrel swinging upward and he realizes all of the sudden that Clint's time is up -

"Son of a bitch!"

He doesn't know if the exclamation comes from him, Barton, or an unholy chorus of the two of them being taken by surprise. Tony prepares to launch himself in front of Barton, already calculating at what angle he would need to bodily shield the archer without actually killing himself in the process: deflect the shiny metal hurtling at them with the edge of his arc reactor or something genius-y like that: _Save the archer, save the world_ , he thinks, and wonders for a second while already in motion why the quality of Heroes had to go down like it did.

His springing leap goes off without a hitch, but is arrested mid-movement when a line of fire sears across his bicep, and a shocked yelp and tumble end what was almost a clichéd but reliable superhero save. Barton swears (again or for the first time) and Tony's startled brain (they were shooting at _you! Holyfuckingshit!_ ) registers a flurry of movement before he crashes into the wall, conveniently using his head as a battering ram that unfortunately does not break them into the questionable safety of next room, but instead ceases Tony's forward momentum with a sudden stop against unforgiving stone. Tony's vision blurs and swims and he shakes his head sharply to clear it, but he thinks the move might make him vomit so he settles for pressing the flat of a sweaty hand against his temple and turning quick, jumping breaths into slow, measured counts as quickly as he can: he's got to get back in the fight ASAP because shit is going _down._

A jumble of arms and legs cartwheel past him in an impressive display of bendable yet crunchy human to impact off the same surface Tony just did, but at greater velocity and therefore with a more sudden, bendier, crunchier stop that makes Tony's own teeth hurt when a couple of front teeth and an incisor tumble wetly to the floor. He can't bring himself to check if the sticky mess beside him is his teammate so Tony resolutely snaps his focus ahead instead, blinking through a red veil that tents his eyelashes and strings tackily to his fingers as he roughly reaches up to swipe at stinging eyes.

Barton is not the gummy, dripping pile of human crumpled on the floor. Barton is standing, glaring, so so cold-eyed as he grips the second guard, the one who shot Tony. The archer has his hands positioned, even the splinted, broken ones, curled into yielding flesh and Tony knows he's going to kill the man, that people _are_ going to die today and he wonders - just for a moment - if a year from now someone will mourn at this man's grave, if he'll even have one.

And that thought, in that moment, is too overwhelming for Tony's shaken brain to process.

"Clint," Tony croaks, "don't," and Clint barely spares a glance but his eyes and his voice are frighteningly calm and Tony almost envies him only because the knock to the head has set off all his panic alarms and suddenly he needs to get _outoutout_ and he can't watch what's about to happen and he can't look away - "Please."

"Don't look, Tony," Barton orders sharply, and even though Tony wants to be resolute he does as Clint asks, turning his head and squeezing his eyes closed. He feels all of five years old as he does it, but he jams his hands against his ears so he doesn't hear the whimpering, the pleading, the last stuttered gasp. The thought that this is what Barton _does_ suddenly makes Tony insanely nauseous; it's one thing to know your teammate has fancy labels like "assassin" and "marksman;" it's another to watch him brutally end a life and know that it's his nine-to-five bread on the table.

A muffled thud through Tony's mostly ineffectual fingermuffs and a body hits the ground, eyes open and neck jutting at an obscene angle and Tony does vomit then, curled into a little ball as his mind helpfully suggests _concussion_ and his body equally helpfully says _get the fuck moving_. He tries to unwind his lanky frame but he's shaking - must be some crazy vibrations from his arc reactor to make his whole body shake like it is, he's definitely gonna have to look at that when they get home in a few hours -

"Hey! _Hey!_ "

It's Barton, kneeling in front of him. White as a sheet where's he not painted red, left hand completely useless now - even more so than before, because apparently Clint could still use it to snap a man's neck but that certainly isn't the case now - "We got to move, Tony. C'mon, up and at 'em."

And Tony wants to move, he does, but his brain has put his body on lockdown and it's not fun by a long shot. He's never seen Clint this intentionally ruthless and it scares him a little, adding to the desperately unwanted panic already filling his limbs and veins with ice. The archer hooks his good hand through Tony's tightly wrapped arms and hauls him to his feet where Tony stands clumsily, wobbling like a newborn colt as he breathes loudly, counting it out, pulling air into frozen lungs.

"Let's go, buddy," Clint murmurs, sliding toward the door, already comfortably adapted to the stolen handgun clutched in his clenched fist. He's tucked the second guard's Glock into the back of his waistband, and Tony would be insulted the archer didn't trust him with a weapon except that _he_ doesn't trust him with a weapon right now, either.

His feet drag a little as Clint pulls him along, ducking into shadows and doorways and generally avoiding people who are probably looking for them but are also likely far more distracted by the angry, bellowing rage clearly audible from a floor above. Clint cocks an ear at the cacophony and grins the biggest shit-eating grin Tony's ever seen.

"That Natasha, huh?" Clint says proudly. "That's my girl." Just for a second, admiration softens the ferocity of his on-the-job glare as he looks expectantly to Tony. "Told you she would come."

OoOoOoOoOo

Natasha does come for Tony, as promised.

In between, there are flashes of lights and sound and activity that Tony's jostled together thoughts try to make sense of. For a long while in slowed-down-action-y-time the thing Tony is aware of the most is the solid warmth of Clint's hand on his arm, propelling him on. He follows obediently, willing his brain to function properly, _needing_ to help before something terrible happens -

 _( … fast machine … )_

 _( … motor clean … )_

Shards were falling in his mind, bouncing off the floor of his brain and rocketing around on an uncontrollable ricochet, pinging off of walls and crashing into each other, filling his brain with half-thoughts and abandoned memories.

 _( … knocking me out … )_

His vision clears long enough to see Clint snap another neck and it's suddenly too much, too grisly, another fucking funeral and Tony's stomach lurches upward. He hastily swallows back bile scorching his throat - _(… the walls were shaking … )_ and shoves himself into the nearest corner because he just needs a minute to think, a minute to get his breathing under control. Barton, of course, does not take kindly to the sudden halt of forward progress. Fingers still wrapped around Tony's forearm, Clint's voice filters through the brain noise of AC/DC and Tony's own rapid breathing.

"Hey! Hey! Are you with me? Come on, Stark, pull it together!" Tony can hear him muttering to himself, "… fucking _think_ Barton, you've traumatized your backup… okay… " and he thinks reassuring Clint might be a good idea, since Clint really is trying his best to keep Tony moving along. Tony opens his mouth to offer a genius-filled platitude that will make everything better, but what spills out is, " _the earth was quaking,"_ in a shaky, wobbly voice that is emphatically _not_ his. Clint sucks in a sharp breath and Tony feels rough fingers fan across his face and tilt his head up.

"Tony, listen, _listen,_ " Barton instructs, but he can't, his mind is too hazy, and all he can think and all he can say is _you_ \- _you shook me all night long_ \- and then Clint chuckles around a grumbled, "are you fucking kidding me? come on, buddy, we're almost there."

( … _yeah, you - )_

A splatter of red is the next thing Tony remembers, and then they're going down, down to a knee and then to the floor. Clint pants harshly as he folds next to Tony, struggling to let their weight down gently and he ends up on his side facing Tony while the inventor is somehow stretched out on his back on the hallway tile.

For what feels like a long time, Clint's hand is on Tony's arm, and Tony can feel the warmth of his teammate crumbled next to him and though he knows it's not time to rest, not time yet to stop, he's actually comfortably warm at the moment and Clint's breath isn't that painful rasping of the last few days so maybe he's resting too. Tony pushes at Barton with shaking hands to stir him on, but there's something odd about Barton's eyes, about the way he's looking down the hall without actually seeing, even though when Tony curiously but laboriously turns his head to follow Clint's line of sight he sees Natasha running toward them, screaming soundlessly, her own expression twisted and scared and disbelieving, Cap and Rhodes on her heels.

 _stay awake_ overlaps with _the_ _walls were shaking_ overlaps with a teammate's anguish so desperate it makes his own chest clench as she slams to her knees beside them. Everything hurts on the outside, and now he's being shredded on the inside because it wasn't supposed to be today, it _wasn't._ And now somebody is gonna have to fucking buy flowers next year and he's pretty sure he emphatically stated that _wasn't_ going to be the case.

An unwanted but unchecked tear rolls out of the corner of his eye. Rogers is leaning over him, saying words that somehow congeal into _flesh wounds, you're gonna be okay_ and Tony wonders how many times he'd actually got shot after realizing that apparently he'd been shot, but hooray, apparently he's going to be okay anyway.

Clint's chest hitches once under Natasha's somehow frantically calm ministrations, a gurgling gasp of air that sounds like death but means he's alive. They both are. More raspy breaths follow and Romanoff begins barking orders like there's no tomorrow - which, Tony supposes, there almost wasn't for Team Stark, but Natasha's mouth is set and firm now, and somehow Tony knows Clint is going to eventually be fine as well, thank God.

Tony smiles grimly, eyes falling closed in exhaustion. He's ready to go home.

It's been months, after all.


End file.
